Testament
by I've Been a Labrat
Summary: Erik's past is vague beyond him being a survivor of Shaw and Auschwitz, and then somehow having a son. Charles didn't know everything like he claimed, because if he had known everything, he would've run screaming, Erik was certain.
1. Liberation

"_Our new name is Lehnsherr. We can hide for longer that way."_

"_We're already branded with that star, Jakob. Max and Ruth don't need any more upheaval by changing our family name."_

"_Edie, it's already been done. If our children are going to survive, they'll have to adapt."_

* * *

"_Your name is Erich now! Live your uncle's legacy, boy!"_

"_Jakob, get off him! Darling, you're still Max. Don't let your father rename you."_

"_For God's sake, Edie, my brother is dead and you want to ignore him?"_

"_I don't want our son forgetting his identity entirely! He's all we have left! We're no longer Eisenhardts, now you want us to call him Erich? We might as well have killed our Max a long time ago, if only to spare him his father trying to bury who he is!"_

* * *

Sitting among other striped prisoners, he coughed raggedly. He wasn't even nearly as bad as the others, but he was still quarantined with them because he had lice in the slight hair on his head, crawling over his body, and he coughed like they did. And, like they did, he didn't believe it was over.

Oh, those soldiers had come. They spoke a foreign tongue that had a word here and there that might've sounded a bit familiar, they were dressed in light colored uniforms, and everyone had seen the looks of horror on their faces. They weren't enemies, the prisoners had tiredly acknowledged that. But they weren't necessarily friends, either. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend. Erik had been leaning against a barrack wall, barely keeping his eyes open as he watched the soldiers organize and march around, opening the gates and the fences and trying to encourage the prisoners to come out.

The question was, how could they go back? How could they return to the life they used to know, even before the Nazis took over? Even the youngest of them usually recalled something of the old life, because most of the ones who were too young to remember had been culled from the herd a long time ago. He recognized, like some others, that he at least had to get out, if nothing else. He at least didn't want to die here or even within Polish or German borders. He wanted out of it all, away somewhere he could be semi-safe to die of natural causes. He didn't care about building a new life on the ashes of his old one, he just wanted to get away.

But when he was staggering out, he stumbled, and a soldier caught his arm. Without even thinking, his heart suddenly started beating a hundred kilometers an hour, and he screamed before jerking away as fast as he could. Metal had shot out from the barbed wire fence, not hitting anyone, but coming close. Everyone had startled away, then. Prisoners and soldiers alike.

Which was why they weren't his friends. They weren't enemies, but they weren't friends. He'd fallen into the mud, breath in gasps, and his eyes wide in fear as adrenaline raced through him. The metal screeched a little as it twisted to form a barrier between himself and the soldiers, and he panted in an attempt to try to calm down, catch his breath, stop panicking. He couldn't, he couldn't stop panicking, he was too afraid of what they would do to him, especially now they knew what he could do. He sat there, trembling and still breathing hard, for what seemed like hours. Soldiers had edged away to help the other prisoners, a few still standing there. Two were openly pointing their guns at him, while the other two just stared at him and looked nervous.

Then he saw him. He wasn't sure at first if he was hallucinating or not-he'd done that a lot in recent months, since he was at a different camp, away from Herr Doktor's experimentation, and thus was fed the same as everyone else-but sure enough, there really was a man who looked like a walking American flag. His shield was even like that, only it also resembled a target. He wondered absently if that was intentional, or a design oversight. In any case, this man was walking closer, looking directly at him and the barrier he'd constructed with his freakish powers. He didn't know if he should run or not. Then again, what was the point? Where would he go?

He stood still, knowing his eyes were wide and frightened, and hating himself for it. Hadn't he learned not to show fear to anyone? Herr Doktor had been the only one who could still get him to show a plethora of fear, each moment the man was around. But he'd tried not to show fear to others, because fear was weakness, and stronger people could always smell it like sharks to blood. The flag clad man motioned at the soldiers who were aiming their guns toward him, talking with them before turning back to the boy shivering behind the barrier.

A woman approached, standing next to Flag Man and smiling reassuringly at him. He wouldn't be reassured. Not today, not tomorrow, likely never. Not by anyone. Her German, however, was pretty good, though he could tell by the way her voice halted a couple times that she wasn't a native speaker. He couldn't decide whether to be relieved or more suspicious. She asked him if he was alright, and he shrugged. She asked him why he'd reacted so poorly to the soldiers. He gave her a look as if to ask in return, "Why ask such a stupid question? Do you even _see_ what's happened here?" She asked him how he'd created the barrier, and he didn't respond. Flag Man spoke to the woman then, muttering a bit, and she smiled at the boy again, trying to reassure him once more.

"Can you take down the wall? This is Captain Rogers, here," she gestured to Flag Man. "He wants to talk to you. He won't hurt you, I promise."

As if a mere promise would really coerce him into removing his protection. But these soldiers weren't Nazis, and even if they had been, he'd long ago learned there were times to disobey, and times to keep your head down to stay safe. This was one of the latter times, he could sense. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the barrier in front of him, but the harder he tried, the more the metal's responsiveness faded. Herr Doktor's voice rang in his head, telling him to hold still as his arm was cut open, no anesthetic dulling the pain. The barrier seemed to rip itself down then, and he stood shaking, breath panting as he looked up to the woman and… Captain Rogers, apparently. The captain stepped forward, and something about him made him feel less hostile, less afraid. He took a step toward the captain, meeting him halfway and tilting his head back to look up at the man.

The woman walked up to stand a bit behind Captain Rogers, there to translate, he supposed. The captain spoke up, and the woman translated for him. What was his name? How old was he? Where was he from?

"So how old are you? Where are you from in Germany?"

He hated himself for divulging so much, but someone would have to find out who he was eventually. "Seventeen."

The woman seemed to be a little impatient, prompting him to tell where he was from once more. "And you're from…?"

"Nuremberg." Where he'd been expelled a few years ago, for being a cheating Jew.

"What is your name?"

He remembered his father's words, then. After Uncle Erich had…

He shook his head, blinking quickly to ward off the pressure and moisture in his eyes. "Erik Lehnsherr."

"How do you spell it?"

"E-r-i-k…" He trailed off, watching through narrowed eyes as the woman wrote his name down. "L-e-h-n-s-h-e-r-r."

Max was dead in a pit of rotting corpses, somewhere in the Polish countryside. He was Erik. Now and forever.

* * *

Captain Rogers turned out to be blond. Still very tall, like when they'd met, and his boots didn't really add to his height like Erik had first suspected. He was… Erik didn't want to admit it, but he was kind. He didn't seem frightened of the power the young boy had so blatantly displayed in front of everyone. Erik didn't see him for a while after their meeting, because the prisoners had all been rushed off to be disinfected and given medical examinations.

There had been riots. Some had trusted the soldiers, because they were Americans, so they cared. Others had refused, and fought to get away. Erik might have been among them, had he not broken down. They'd all been taken in trucks to a real city, though it was filled with rubble, and they'd been told to shower. He'd been reduced to gasps and sobbing, backing away and gripping his shaven head as he moaned that he wouldn't go in there. He'd heard the screaming and banging from inside the camp showers, as load after load of people died from the Zyklon B. He'd had to shovel their bodies into the ovens, and he'd also had to help dismantle the crematorium on orders from the commanding officers. It still haunted Erik's dreams more than the smell of burning flesh had. He sometimes wished he'd resisted instead of hiding the evidence like an obedient Jewish rat. Other times, he was relieved he'd done as he was told, because now he was alive to-

Well, he had nothing to do. None of them did. That's what they all had in common: their collective lack of belonging and purpose. They had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, nothing to do. The Nazis had stolen everything. Homes, possessions, family, jobs, childhoods, lives, faith, and hope. They'd stolen it all. None of them had anything left. They didn't have each other, certainly. Not all of them spoke the same language, so it was a nightmare just to try and have a conversation. They were still used to looting one another, desperate for food or something of value to trade for food. Erik knew he would gladly-and literally-stab in the back whoever stood next to him if it meant he could survive another day. He also knew the others wouldn't hesitate to do the same, so he kept his eyes open at all times, suspicious of everyone and trusting no one. Trust didn't get you anything but a bullet in the head, so far as Erik had seen.

Captain Rogers had requested to see Erik again after that day, and he'd gone, ignoring the fact he was breaking his own rule of not trusting anyone. The woman wasn't there to translate, much to Erik's surprise, and he regarded the captain warily.

"How can you move objects without touching them?" Captain Rogers asked him, his gaze open and curious. Erik wasn't sure how to respond, really.

The line was obviously recited, and it was doubtful, judging by their interaction before, that the captain knew any more German than that. Which made little sense, then, because why would he ask if he couldn't understand Erik's reply?

What did he have to lose, though? Captain Rogers couldn't understand him, no one else was there to hear, and Erik could take someone out if he had to.

"You really can't understand me?" Erik inquired, letting himself have inward satisfaction at the blank look on Captain Rogers's face. "Gut. I don't know how. A man… studied me. Said genes were the key, though he never clarified on what that meant. I have no idea what genes make me able to do this, and what genes are just normal… for a Jew, anyway."

Erik looked at the floor, scratching a little at his hand with bitten nails, wondering for a moment what he must look like. Captain Rogers was well fed, he could see that much. Strong, muscled, hardened to war but still far better off. Erik was half-starved, weak, lean, lying to himself about being hardened to death. "I can move metal only, nothing else. I've tried, trust me. Metal's all that responds when…" He mulled over the words, trying to put into speech what it was that he felt when he tried to move the metal around him. "When I… call to it, I suppose is what it is. That's the best description I can think of for it."

Captain Rogers continued to listen, and he managed to get across a question asking about Erik's old life.

So he told him. He told the man everything he could think of that wasn't too painful, everything he knew for sure he wouldn't start bawling over. He couldn't show too much weakness, but he allowed himself this much. Captain Rogers didn't speak German, he couldn't understand, but to know this strange American cared about Erik in some way besides twisted fascination was… comforting, he supposed. It had been a long time since he'd felt comforted, however, so he wasn't sure if that was the correct emotion. The slight warmth at the edges of his consciousness still felt like a vague memory of comfort, though.


	2. To Be Above

He took a bath.

The thought of a shower made him paralyzed with fear, breathing erratic until he blacked out and fell on the hard tile of the hospital floor. Thankfully, the unconsciousness was blissfully free of his memories, but the moment he woke, his own mind assaulted him.

He could still smell it in his nose. The scent would never leave him. He had to stop, sometimes, and wait until the urge to vomit passed before he could keep walking to wherever he'd been going. Erik found himself leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths through his mouth and trying not to lose the little food he'd managed to get down. He could tell the hospital staff was confused by the prisoners. They could hardly bear to eat, stomachs revolting at the thought of food after being deprived for so long. And yet, when they did eat, they greedily took it, eating as though they'd been raised by animals. They hadn't been raised that way. They'd just adapted and learned to eat fast before someone stole your food. Erik carefully didn't think of his family, not wanting to consider how his mother would react to him stealing food from the hospital cafeteria to stash away. How his mother would react to him wolfing down every scrap of food he finally decided to consume. It made it easier to act the way he did, if he neglected to consider how his mother would react to him now.

Straightening slowly, now the smell in his nostrils had faded, Erik would then continue walking. He usually wanted to go outside, just for a little while. Fresh air might help him neglect to consider for even longer. Fresh air might beat back the smell of burning flesh for longer, keep it from making him sick all over the floor. He made sure the hat on his head was tucked so it would be hard to tell if his head was shaven. His hair would take a while to grow back, they'd told him, if it grew back at all. He knew they were merely giving him the news, unsure how to comfort people like him, but at the same time, he wished they would give the news of everything less bluntly. But then he'd recognize the need to toughen up and become great at taking blunt news, and he'd stop wishing for gentler delivery.

Now, though, Erik sat in the warm water, enjoying it… or was "enjoy" really the right word to use? Did he enjoy it? Or was it mere relief he had access to warm water once again? He couldn't tell, honestly. His emotions, he realized, were muddled and had even become foreign. Happy, relief, joyful, secure, sad. All unknown to him. He might have been helped if he remembered his family. But since remembering his family was too painful, he avoided it, and thus avoided discovering and remembering what his emotions were like. The only ones he knew for absolute certain were fear, pain, and anger.

The water sloshed as he shifted, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. The doctors were concerned how thin he was, how thin they all were. Erik couldn't see why. He'd gotten used to it. He honestly couldn't have been able to tell a difference between normal and thin, if he hadn't seen any normal-looking people. There was a definite difference, yet Erik could hardly bring himself to care. He was still alive, wasn't he? Clearly, there was nothing to be worried about.

Then he coughed, and he was reminded there was a small something to be worried about, as he was consumed by a fit that rattled his entire body. He couldn't breathe, he realized, and that should have made him panic. But no, he knew how long he could go without oxygen. He wouldn't start to panic until several more seconds had passed.

He ended up spitting a combination of blood and mucus into the water, effectively making it unusable. His throat felt like he'd coughed up nails instead, though it was far from the worst feeling he'd ever endured. It took a large amount of fumbling and tugging, but he finally got himself out of the basin and collapsing onto a towel. Erik didn't bother to sit for a while, contemplating anything. That was what he went outside to do. Pulling his shaking form to his feet, he wrapped the towel around his waist and started over to the clothes he'd claimed from the pile of donations.

He snorted. Donations. He was a charity case now. Pride drilled into him by his father made him cast a glare at the clothes. Sure, they were his now. The first possessions he'd had besides…

The coin. He'd kept it. Erik needed the object now. He'd grown to depend on it. To remind him this was happening, this wasn't just a gruesome nightmare. He was still real. And when he woke up, he'd still be infected with typhus, bone thin, scarred, and alone.

* * *

He screamed during nightmares. Bloodcurdling sounds, mouth wide as he thrashed in his bed, head rolling side to side as he gasped between cries. His eyes were open, but he wouldn't wake for a few more moments. The nightmare hadn't reached its peak, not yet.

When he did wake, it was jarring and a nurse was standing over him as he coughed, heart pounding against his ribcage. She muttered something about a fever, telling him to go to sleep, and Erik looked away from her until she left. He stared after the closed door, then looked to his left and his right at the prisoners on either side of his cot. He wasn't going back to sleep. Not merely out of fear of another nightmare, but out of spite. None of the hospital staff cared about him, yet they still dared to order him around. No. He was his own man. He would make decisions for himself and be controlled by no one. Not again.

He pulled on his shirt, taking care when he buttoned it. As much as he hated being a charity case, he had to admit, the shirt was nice. That may have been merely because he had been away from real shirts without any holes or stripes for so long, but he still thought of it as nice. He tucked his hat securely on his head, a small blue thing he'd snagged when a patient had died last. He'd done the same with the coat, not wanting to waste the opportunity to own good clothing. Pulling on the wool coat-real wool, and it was so thick-he put his feet into the shoes he'd managed to grab, and stood up. He knew how to sneak around without making noise. Those skills hadn't left him just because he was "safe" now. He slipped out of a door in the hospital, knowing all the entrances and exits possible after the several times he'd gone outside. Which routes which staff took and when they took them, how to get outside without making any noise, and then getting inside despite the locked doors. Herr Doktor had ensured locked doors never stopped him, though he'd been fearful enough not to try to escape. He knew he would never escape unless Herr Doktor let him.

Shuddering, Erik pulled the coat tighter around himself and walked out further, crunching through the slight snow and looking up at the night sky. The stars were bright, looking down at him while they gleamed freely, far above any misfortune that could befall something. How did it feel, to know you were always secure and never going to be threatened by anything terrible, especially not whatever was going on in the world? He imagined it might feel absolutely lovely. Beautiful, to feel that every day. But then, he imagined you might also take it for granted, but never realize it, because you were always safe, and you never knew what happened in the world.

Or did you? Did you know what happened here? Did you know humans were worse than animals? Animals fought and killed each other, but that was always for food or territory, and then it was only one animal versus another, usually. Did you know humans fought and killed each other for fun? Because they simply felt like it? Because they wanted someone to blame everything on someone innocent, someone they'd never met? Did you know humans laughed as they gazed into terrified eyes and put a bullet through that person's head?

Erik shook his head. What he would give to be that far above everything, to be able to ignore what happened in the world and be unconcerned with it until he died of completely natural causes. To be better than everyone, be able to afford not to care about anyone else. It would be exhilarating, never having to care about other people, whether they were good or bad. He'd give everything he had, really. He had nothing and no one but himself and the clothes on his back, and the coin in his pocket. He'd give it all to be able to be above everyone, be entirely in control of his fate, and never have to give a thought to the world for the rest of his existence.


	3. Dina

_This chapter is written with the utmost respect for Mrs. Dina Babbitt, who painted portraits of Romani prisoners in Auschwitz for Josef Mengele, and later went on to become an animator. I dedicate this to her memory, and wish the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum had done the right thing and returned her paintings before her death._

_I would like to thank everyone who has given support to this story thus far, in favorites, follows, and reviews. It has given me confidence to continue my imagining of Erik's past, and I hope I am putting the proper amount of care into this as I write about his experience in the Holocaust. Thank you, all._

* * *

Erik didn't recognize her at first. He'd run outside that night, uncaring if he made any noise, and he rushed past the girl in his haste to escape the confines hospital building. It was his own fault. He should have looked away when they brought the tray of tools in to use on another patient. But he'd looked, and he'd screamed and fled. The white walls, the sharp tools, the needles… They didn't help. Too many memories.

The girl he ran past had brown hair and brown eyes. He remembered that, because though it was common, there was something different about her. Something familiar.

* * *

A different girl, one he remembered vividly, came to mind as he shuddered and stifled his broken sobs. Standing at the edge of the hospital grounds, the farthest he'd run thus far, he looked through the wrought iron fence out at the road. The hospital was in the midst of a bustling, if not rubble-dotted, city, though he was too fearful of leaving the grounds. Too many things could happen, all tracing back to his identity as a Jew.

But now was not the time for thinking of Jews. It would take him down a dark path he didn't wish to travel that night. He was nothing if not steadfastly refusing to have choices made without his consent. Never again.

Dina, he recalled her name. She'd been older than him too. Kind, but sad. Like everyone who wasn't a Nazi. Always sad. But she _had_ been kind. Truly, she had. The first sincere kindness he'd been shown since-

Since that. And the first sincere kindness he would be shown for years, though he couldn't know that, since it was in the future. Dina had been wonderful to him in the short moments they'd interacted, though. He'd been too filled with grief to stand seeing her again after their meeting, however. He couldn't bear to be in the same area as her. He'd been jealous, sickeningly so, and it made him sick to be jealous then but he couldn't control himself. If only he'd been able to barter his skills for his mother's life as Dina had. If only.

* * *

_Walking stiffly beside Schmidt, he swallowed hard and kept his eyes lowered to the floor, not wanting to risk any agitation on the part of the men around him. They held knives and guns, and Schmidt held his threats he'd make good on later. If he looked at someone wrong, he'd be severely punished, only escaping death because he was Schmidt's pet. He'd given up hope of escaping somehow, and now simply prayed for death every night before he went to sleep. This had been preceded by continuous prayers for God to end his life throughout the day, snuffing out his soul like a candle so he wouldn't have to endure anymore._

_It never worked, but he still had hope a merciful God existed and He would answer Erik's prayers for death._

"_Sit down on that bench," Schmidt ordered, pointing to the wooden bench against the wall, across the hall from a door which was presumably the one Schmidt was about to open. Erik didn't give a nod or any acknowledgement he'd heard, merely sitting down immediately despite the pain in his legs._

_Schmidt loomed over him as Erik kept his head down, speaking in a soft yet menacing voice. "Do not think of an escape, young one. I will only be a short while." With that, he turned and stepped into the office across the hall, the door shutting quietly behind him._

_He squinted, looking over the black letters on the glass window. Josef Mengele._

_It was all he could do not to scream and bolt away at that moment. He sat back against the wall, heart pounding as his eyes darted around, still careful to avoid any soldier's gaze, but unable to settle on one thing. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Not him. Anyone but him. Schmidt and Mengele… oh, God._

_He startled a bit when someone suddenly sat beside him on the bench, and his head whipped to his left to stare at the person, once his darting eyes had spotted the striped uniform. A girl, dirtied white apron over her uniform, a cloth covering her hair. Wide blue eyes, hair that was both red and brown. She noticed his stare, and looked back at him with a curious expression on her otherwise saddened face._

"_Ahoj," she murmured, both of them wary of the soldiers stationed at intervals all down the hallway._

_He blinked, not understanding. "Was?"_

_She blinked back, just as lost as he, and they considered one another for a moment. Language barriers, they'd both found, were one of the hardest to cross, particularly here. "Jsem Dina," she replied after a moment, holding out her hand for him to shake._

"_Ich bin Erik," he informed her, tentatively taking her hand and squeezing it a bit. It was the easiest hand shake he could make, with his whole body aching as it was._

_Dina's face changed slightly, barely noticeable, and her lips turned up just enough at the corners to convey a smile. "Jste…" She pointed at him. "Němec?"_

_Erik raised an eyebrow questioningly, hoping the message got across that had no inkling at all what she'd asked him._

"_Deutsch?" She clarified, the name sounding unfamiliar to her._

"_Oh," he mumbled, nodding a bit. "Ja. Deutsch. Sie sind… Ungarische?"_

_Dina seemed to comprehend, and shook her hand. "Čeština," she corrected, though Erik didn't understand. He guessed she had barely understood him, though, so he smiled a bit at their linguistic problem. Dina's smile grew a tad more. "Kolik je vám let?" As she spoke, she made a small gesture with her hands, as if guessing his size._

_Oh, his… size? No, no… age. That was it. He slowly counted out on his fingers for her so she'd understand he was fifteen, sensing the numbers would be lost in translation if he spoke. He pointed at her and said, "Und sie?"_

_He watched closely as she counted out on her hands, stopping when she'd counted two sets of tens, and a single additional finger. Their eyes met, and they smiled, finding camaraderie in their simplistic conversation. Erik began to ask something else, but he went stiff and turned to face the wall, head bowed once more as the door across the hall opened._

"_Erik," Schmidt prompted, and the boy raised his head, expecting to stand once Schmidt snapped his fingers-so he could perform like a dog, only there would be no treat, but merely lack of punishment-and looked up into the soulless gaze of Josef Mengele._

* * *

Herr Doktor informed him later that Dina, the girl he met, painted portraits of the gypsies, in exchange for her mother's safety. He'd chuckled at Erik, recalling his greatest failure and telling him he might've been able to barter like the Dina girl had, if only he'd been able to move the coin like he'd been instructed.

Hot tears coursed down his face as he remembered and collapsed on the ground. If only he'd been stronger.


	4. Magda

_Thank you so much to TheAlabasterPhoenyx for your review! It honestly helps to hear such wonderful words of encouragement. I was worried about that chapter because I used a real, amazing woman, so it's relieving to know I haven't committed any offense._

_If anyone has a chance to read Magneto Testament, published by Marvel, I would recommend you read that before any other comic. Its realism and care with the subject is heartbreaking, and it also includes a comic made about Dina Babbitt in the very back. I would also recommend if you read Magneto Testament, you read it in its graphic novel form instead of the separate comics. The transition is smoother that way and you also do get the extra information within._

* * *

He hadn't seen her in years. The last time, actually, had been when he was just a boy in the schoolyard in Nuremberg. Trying to throw the javelin farther than anyone so he could impress her.

He'd been terrible at everything else. Physical activity had never been his forte, and that day was no exception. Last to finish in sprint races and running around the track. He'd been gasping and wheezing by the end of both, the other boys in his class snickering at the small Jew trash who couldn't keep up.

Of course he couldn't keep up. It was the very nature of Jews to be worthless rats, as all good Aryan boys were told. Jews were pathetic, and Erik fit the description exceptionally.

Long jumping made his legs ache and he always fell gracelessly in the sand, the raucous laughter of his classmates from behind him always mocking him. Erik kept his head hung in shame, face burning at his failures.

"Dead last in everything, Eisenhardt."

Erik shut his eyes, gritting his teeth as he remembered being pummeled into the sand during wrestling matches. Those blond bastards could all go die, so far as Erik was concerned.

No, no. No more death. He shook his head, hands knotting in his hair as his breathing became shallow, whole body rocking back and forth. No more death, not for anyone. No more of it, for the love of God, no more death. He couldn't bear it if anyone else died and he heard about it. The bullies could live because he didn't want anyone else to die. He'd had too much of it for one person's lifetime. His childhood had been taken and he'd looked into the eyes of death's perpetrators and victims alike.

_Please, God, no more. Please, Lord, I beg you. No more death._

* * *

Magda. Gypsy girl, helping her mother clean up the school he attended. Because as bad as things were for Jewish rats, Gypsies were scum not worth stepping on. So she was always worse off than he'd been, and Erik moaned at the thought.

_My problems are bad? Ha. Magda's had it worse. What right do I have to complain?_

He didn't have a right. Her suffering was worse than his. He didn't deserve to be grieved over all the experiments, the camps, the burning of people in ovens, his mother, the ghettos. No right at all to be upset, not when Magda had suffered even longer, and far worse, than he had.

No right to grieve. His problems were insignificant specks in the dust.

* * *

He had nerve, he could say that much of himself, as he dared to approach Magda after a week of self-loathing and agonizing over speaking to her again. But he did, because as unbearable as the thought of talking to her again was, it was the lesser of the two evils than not talking to her again. He'd known her from before, and he clung desperately to it.

He had nothing left from before. All his possessions had been sold off over the years to try to buy food, their house had been taken long ago, and his family consisted of rotting corpses in the ground and ashes mingling in the Polish air. Magda was the only thing he had left, and he was determined not to let her slip away, leaving him permanently adrift.

"Hello," he said quietly, staring what he knew might come off as mildly unsettling, but that was his gaze these days. Fortunately, Magda's gaze was about the same, and they looked at each other for a few long moments.

"Hello."

Erik cleared his throat a little, sticking his hands in his pockets and averting his eyes after a second, looking at the floor. "I… um… not sure if you remember me. I'm…" He stood still then, paralyzed and unable to croak out even a sound. No. He couldn't… couldn't speak to Magda. Not without revealing who he was.

Turning away, he scurried away, breathing rapid as he went to his cot and sat down heavily on it, burying his face in his hands. _Max. Erik. Eisenhardt. Lehnsherr. Max had Jakob, Edie, Ruth, Erich. Erik has no one. Max lived in Nuremberg. Erik lives nowhere. Max excelled in school even if he wasn't good at physical activity. Erik is useless in all areas. Max was innocent. Erik doesn't know how anyone could be innocent, not while they live in this world._

_I'm Erik. But I want to be Max again. Even if Max's life is dead, I want to be him. I'd give anything to be him again. To live normally once more._

Beneath that all-encompassing longing to be Max again, however, was a darker desire, barely able to get its voice into the longings of Erik's head.

_I want to be Erik. I want to crush everyone who tries to rule me. There is no equality unless I make my own. I want to save my people from persecution. I want to kill anyone who stands in my way._


End file.
